Struggling Dawn

I tremble with overwhelming distress as waves of heaviness and nausea course through my body. A sharp, pulsating pain in my right temple forces me to tightly close my eye, seeking relief from the throbbing ache. Perspiration covers me as I shake uncontrollably, my trembling hands unable to find solace. My thoughts scatter like confetti in the wind, leaving me pondering trivial matters amidst the chaos of my inner turmoil. Did Evie receive her new water bottle? Was there enough ice in her lunchbox to keep her meatballs cool and delicious? In just seven short hours, I will again be responsible for her well-being, nurturing her tender heart and guiding her curious mind. But as I stand here, consumed by my own internal struggle, doubts creep in. Was I too harsh in my delivery? After all, she is only four years old, and I must remind myself of her tender age and innocence. Yet, my focus wavers and my breaths become laboured, as if the world's weight rests upon my chest. In these moments, I yearn to hide, to escape the overwhelming torrent of emotions that threaten to engulf me. My eyes struggle to stay open, heavy with the weight of exhaustion, yet my entire being is consumed by fear that I cannot control or escape.

The way he gazes at me, especially during these overwhelming moments when I'm no longer myself, nor a mother or a wife. Later, he says, "It's okay; I understand you can't control it," but it feels as if his patience has its limits. With each prolonged, heavy sigh he emits, I sink deeper into misery, feeling even less supported. How long until I'm abandoned for causing unhappiness in everyone's life? His sighs and disregard for my boundaries hint at an inevitable ending on a relentless train, hurtling towards a destination I dare not imagine.

All because I couldn't find my bottle of hairspray. It's a mundane, insignificant detail that unravelled the delicate balance of my carefully constructed routine. Because no matter how diligently you try, there's no perfect timing when it involves a 4-year-old who needs to walk 0.75 km to catch her bus. There are too many variables, from interesting rocks that catch her attention to curious animals that captivate her imagination. From disliking her outfit to feeling tired, hot, or hungry, her emotions ebb and flow like the tides, and I absorb every wave. She is better at expressing her feelings and thoughts than I am, her innocence and vulnerability shining through as she navigates the world with wide-eyed wonder.

As we endure the seemingly endless walk, anger consumes me. I'm furious that this is my life, and I can't seem to do anything right. My period is overdue, and the uncomfortable bloating makes me feel unattractive and disconnected from my own body. My mind taunts me with fleeting thoughts that slip away before I can fully grasp them, leaving me feeling lost and disconnected. In these moments, I am the worst company to keep.

Then, as we walk, my child reaches out, her tiny hand grasping mine with a gentle squeeze. She looks up at me with her innocent, doe-like eyes and says, "Mommy, you'll always come back for me, right?" The vulnerability in her voice pierces through my despair, and I can't help but feel a glimmer of optimism. She leans in, planting a tender kiss on the back of my hand, and offers me a small rock she's carried for nearly a kilometre, waiting for the perfect moment to give it to me. In that simple gesture, she reminds me of the unconditional love amidst the chaos, the strength and resilience that resides within her and me.

The bus arrives, interrupting our moment of solace and signalling the start of another separation. I accompany her, holding her close as I reluctantly fasten her seatbelt. Tears stream down her face, and her "No, Mommy, no" cries tug at my heartstrings. My anger dissipates instantly, replaced by a fierce determination to comfort and reassure her. As the line of halted cars on the highway grows, I cradle her tear-streaked face in my hands, assuring her that Mommy will always return, promising her a wonderful day at school filled with laughter and learning, and reminding her of my immense love that knows no bounds.

As I make my way home, my footsteps heavy and my mind clouded with exhaustion, I notice the cleaners have arrived. While their presence would typically bring relief, it only adds to my mounting stress today. I haven't prepared for their visit, and I struggle to determine what needs attention, where everything is supposed to go, and whether I even have the energy to engage with them. My heart and mind are overwhelmed, and the simplest tasks feel like insurmountable challenges. My skin crawls with unease, and every sound resonates unpleasantly within my head and against my sensitive skin. I am crippled in a state of fear and confusion, desperately longing for a respite from the relentless onslaught of sensory overload.

My marriage, too, has been affected by the traumatic events of my past. Spending time with my husband can be both a source of comfort and a source of anxiety, as I often struggle to accept and embrace the love he has for me fully. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) triggers during conversations or moments of intimacy make it hard to fully let go and trust in the love that he so freely offers. It becomes a constant battle to remain present, to push past the barriers that my past has erected, and to show up for my loved ones in the way they deserve.

I struggle to cope with the deafening silence that engulfs me as I navigate each day, counting the hours until nightfall. The stillness amplifies my fears, and I dread the moment I close my eyes, knowing that the nightmares will come, haunting my restless slumber. And as the sun rises, it brings another overwhelming and unbearable day that I fear I won't be able to handle. Yet, I keep getting up, I keep trying to get through the average daily moment that any other mother can handle with grace. I keep trying, and maybe just not giving up is the best I can do for myself and my family.